


hospitality

by casualbird



Series: dedue week 2020 [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Baking, Dedue Needs A Vacation, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Polyamory, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Yearning, all that good stuff, homoerotic wrestling, ignatz and raphael's very cute baby, rated for future, the wordiest smut you've ever read in your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: Everyone--even someone so strong, so steadfast as Dedue--needs rest. Needs to unwind, to rebuild what the daily grind has worn away.Ignatz and Raphael know pretty well how they can help.Written for Dedue Week day 7--future
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro/Ignatz Victor, Raphael Kirsten/Dedue Molinaro, Raphael Kirsten/Ignatz Victor, Raphael/Dedue/Ignatz
Series: dedue week 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593229
Comments: 54
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! just thought i'd give y'all a little heads-up that in this fic, i write ignatz as a trans man who, ah, did all his own stunts regarding the birth of his and raphael's daughter. the fact that he Got Knocked Up or whatever isn't sexualized in this fic, he's just chilling out nursing his baby, but pregnancy and chilbirth is understandably the nightmare scenario for a lot of transmasculine people, so i thought i'd let you know.

It’s a week before Dedue is even able to open the letter, having been preoccupied with-- well, everything. It feels, sometimes, as if Fódlan in its entirety rested on his shoulders, and as broad a man as he was, that could be... trying.

But, of course, he doesn’t have it nearly as bad as Dimitri, or the Archbishop. So he soldiers on, directing the palace staff, reining in the fractious nobility, cobbling together funds for the reconstruction of Duscur. It’s slow business, that, and even though it’s meant to be his main responsibility, is in his title, for heaven’s sake--he feels as though he has less time to devote to it with every passing moon.

So. He wakes with the sun, or before. He secludes himself in his office when he can, and moves expeditiously between meetings when he cannot. He eats and bathes and sleeps, he will admit, far less than he ought to.

And his personal correspondence languishes on his nightstand, until he spots it, remembers how long it’s been lying there, and is wracked with guilt.

It’s always such a pleasure, this. When he seats himself at his _personal_ writing desk, which is much smaller, much neater. When he makes himself a cup of tea and drinks it slowly, holding it up so the steam will soothe the ache between his eyes. When he reminds himself that breathing is not an entirely utilitarian endeavor, when he inhales deep the way his mother taught him, holds it for a moment, feels the tight coil of his body beginning to unwind.

And he thinks to himself, it would be quite rude not to give his friends the attention they deserve, and so allows himself to take his time.

It’s heartening--on the whole, Dedue receives good news. Mercedes and Dorothea are planning to expand their orphanage, and ask him once more about his cultural practices, that they might better care for the Duscur children they’ve taken in. Annette is enjoying the first year of her position at Garreg Mach, teaching sorcery. Felix and Sylvain are arguing--but given that the disagreement is over the guest list for their upcoming wedding, it seems a favorable problem to have.

The last letter presents another welcome dilemma. It comes all the way from Leicester, from Ignatz and Raphael’s little inn in the foothills, and it is an invitation. _You work yourself too hard,_ says Raphael’s inelegant print, _come down for a few days. Put your feet up._

Dedue sighs. He hasn’t got time to put his feet anywhere other than the straight path forward, frustrating though it may be.

_We’ll take care of you,_ Raphael insists, and Dedue’s resolve almost crumbles. _Almost._

Dedue drops his regrets in with the outgoing mail, and huddles into his bed, curling around himself to stave off the bitter cold.

Several days later, after breakfast, Dimitri pulls him aside. Says he’s gotten a letter, says that Dedue’s presence is urgently needed out west.

“May I ask where, Your Highness?”

A little smile from Dimitri, almost mischievous. “With Raphael and Ignatz. They told me you said you were too busy to rest and take care of yourself.”

“With all due respect... I am.”

Dimitri shakes his head, though his lips part, showing teeth. “My old friend,” he says. “You would never let _me_ neglect myself like this. It’s an order, then. I’ve arranged a convoy to leave with you tomorrow, and for your work to be taken care of for the next fortnight.”

Dedue’s jaw slips open, and he stammers quite unprofessionally. He’s busy working out something to say when he feels the warmth of Dimitri’s hand on his shoulder, the soft ache of his muscles when Dimitri gives him a friendly squeeze.

“There’s no need to thank me, Dedue. It’s only what you deserve, working so tirelessly for our nation’s future. For _your_ nation’s future,” he says, and there is a fleeting softness in his good eye that warms Dedue more than any of the layers he wears. “Besides, old friend, I need you operating at full strength. A little time off will do you good, do you not think?”

Dedue thinks--as he sits in the carriage bright and early next morning, as he watches the gates of Fhirdiad grow smaller and smaller behind him--he thinks that sweet Raphael and Ignatz are far wilier than ever he gave them credit for.

* * *

The journey is... uneventful, a mixed blessing. Dedue cannot think of the last time he’d traveled across Fódlan without something grim either chasing or awaiting him, and it’s lovely to just. Breathe. Admire the scenery--the forests just now starting to recover from the blazes of war, the villages dotted with the frames of new houses. It’s been several moons since he’s been able to check on his homeland in person, but reports have told him that it’s beginning to look like this. He’s turned pits of ash into tent cities, and those are starting to give way to more permanent settlements themselves, putting up stone walls and timbers.

Still, though he is meant to be relaxing, Dedue finds it nearly impossible to turn his mind away from Duscur, as ever. The logistics preoccupy him, and the rest--catches up to him, sometimes.

It’s bittersweet, now the war’s over, now the reconstruction has begun in earnest, and it always will be.

It is nice to see the scenery, it’s true, but Dedue is... so, so grateful when they arrive in that little town at the base of Fodlan’s throat. So grateful when the carriage stops, when he can stretch out, carry his luggage to the front porch of that familiar building, the cheerfully-painted one with the sign reading _Kirsten Arms._

The most grateful, though, when his friends burst through the door to meet him, grinning and calling out his name, words of welcome. Raphael meets him with arms outstretched, gathering him up, pulling him close. Those broad hands thump him kindly on the back, and-- well. It’s not a gesture Dedue is used to. He freezes a moment, hands still clutching his bags, words catching in his throat.

He soon softens--Raphael is warm, and holds him firmly, and when Dedue is able to catch his breath, he finds that Raphael smells comforting, like cooking oil and clean sweat and soap. He breathes him in, and then--worries he’s being untoward. Steps back, though he doesn’t lose his smile.

Ignatz is there on the front step, his apron as messy as his hair, his smile. It seems he’s been painting landscapes again--it’s streaked and smudged with soft browns, lively greens, clear blues. There’s a delighted baby on his hip, reaching her pudgy fingers toward Dedue, chattering away.

“Raphael,” says Dedue after a moment, nearly breathless. “Ignatz, little Daisy. It’s so wonderful to see you all again. You’ve been well?”

Ignatz laughs, swaying Daisy back and forth. “Yes! See, sweet pea? Uncle Dedue says hello. Can you say ‘hi,’ Daisy?”

She doesn’t, though there’s no guarantee Dedue would have noticed if she had. _Uncle Dedue,_ by all the gods. His--his cup was dangerously close to running over.

“No? That’s fine too, Daisy.” Ignatz shrugged, looking up once more to meet Dedue’s eye.”We’re working on it.”

Raphael pipes up, grinning. “She’s a smart one, though! Like her daddy,” he says, tousling his husband’s hair. “Any day now she’ll be talking like a champ. Hey, Dedue, lemme get those bags for ya.”

Dedue considers resisting, but decides it’s futile. Raphael is that kind of person--he’d wrestle Dedue’s bags away if he needed to. So he hands them over, and Raphael laughs as he gathers them up, carries them inside like they’re nothing.

Ignatz hesitates a moment, busies his flighty fingers pulling one of the baby’s socks back into place. He kisses her temple, and Dedue purses his lips, feeling, all of a sudden, as if he’ll burst into tears if he doesn’t.

Happy tears, he’s fairly certain. Ignatz holds the child so easily, as if nothing could have come more naturally to him, and his face shines like a spring morning.

“You, ah,” Ignatz begins, and though his voice is hedging in its familiar pattern, that verve never leaves his body, the way he shifts his weight. “You’re not--upset, are you? That we... went above your head?”

Dedue isn’t sure if the sound he makes is a sigh or a laugh, but he offers Ignatz a smile. “I’ll admit I was a tad shocked, at first. Your little scheme was... clever. And not unkind, so no. I’m not angry.”

Ignatz’s smile travels all the way up his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That’s good to hear,” he says, sounding more than a little relieved. “And, um. We just felt that--if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that we don’t always know when we’re being unkind to ourselves. Sometimes it’s just... best to be able to rely on your friends. That’s why we wrote to His Highness... Raphael made a joke about it, but I thought it might really work. And it did.”

He glanced back over to the baby, cheeks flushing sunrise pink. “And I’m... so happy to see you, Dedue.”

Dedue feels his lips turning up at the corners, feels just a little warmer despite the Guardian Moon chill.

“I am very glad to be here,” he says, his voice gone soft.

“We’re glad to have you! Aren’t we, Daisy?” She babbles a little, reaching up to paw at Ignatz’s glasses. “No, no. Daddy needs those to see!” He laughs as her soft hand comes to wrap around his finger instead, her head leaning back against his breast.

“Um, please!” blurts Ignatz, as if he’s just remembered where he is. “Come in out of the cold. You must be exhausted--I’ll put on some tea.”

Dedue only nods, still smiling as he follows him inside.


	2. Chapter 2

The inn is not a quiet place, but Dedue isn’t certain if he’d prefer it to be. It’s not especially loud, not the kind of din that overtakes the palace courtyards, the kitchens, the great hall--but there is a verve to it, a kind of liveliness. A fire roars in the main room’s hearth, and travelers sit at long benches and chat, swapping stories, laughing, bashing their steins lustily against the tables. It sounds like the square in the town Dedue grew up in, it sounds like a full and happy home.

The smell, though, is what truly makes it. Smoke, certainly, and ale, and the vague undertone of wet wool from the coatrack. And, of course, a general sort of humanity, of travel grime, exertion. And that’s--alright. He’s not partial to it, didn’t grow up around taverns, but it’s a sight better than the sterility of the palace. And behind all of that--the soft scent of cedar lingers, and there’s always something warm and hearty simmering away in the kitchen.

Dedue wakes at his usual hour, the first morning of his stay, and with all his nervous energy, gravitates there. Stoking the fires, scrubbing pots--that sort of thing. If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean, his mother had always said. Raphael refuses payment for his room and board besides, even though Dedue has the entire Faerghan treasury behind him, and so he figures he ought to make himself useful somehow.

But then Ignatz stumbles into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, still in his nightshirt, and nearly frog-marches him back to bed. Though he chides him, though he shakes his head, he smiles.

So he resolves instead to do some reading, and then doesn’t, and wakes to Raphael knocking on his door, an enormous breakfast spread steaming on a tray. _You’re looking thin,_ he tells him, _aren’t they feeding you at the palace?_

And he sits there on the edge of the bed, drinking his coffee and chatting bright and animated about business and the baby and not at all about Dedue’s work.

When he leaves, grinning, carrying the tray, Dedue wonders just how long it’s been since he’s had a proper conversation about anything else.

* * *

It’s a bright morning, unseasonably warm when Raphael thunders into the sitting room, plunks a roll of bandages down on the table next to Dedue’s teacup.

“Spar with me,” he says, casual and grinning. Dedue takes a sip of tea--peppermint--and hides pursed lips behind the rim of his mug.

“I, er, I’m afraid I’ve fallen out of practice.”

And Raphael laughs at that--if Dedue didn’t know him so well, he might have thought that he was being mocked, but Raphael honestly would never. All of his laughter comes from deep in his chest, hearty and sincere and full-bodied as the rest of him, and Dedue had forgotten how comforting it was.

Suddenly, he’s hiding a smile in that teacup instead.

“Come on, Dedue!” He steps forward, claps him companionably on the shoulder. “For old time’s sake?”

There’s a little flurry of sound coming from the corner of the room--it’s Ignatz, curled up in an easy chair, giggling behind his sketchbook. “Dear--don’t badger him!”

But Dedue only shakes his head, lays his teacup on the table. “It’s alright. I’ll admit that I don’t exercise as much as I used to. I’d welcome the chance to spar with you.” He rises, reaching for the bandages, going through the old familiar motion of wrapping his hands. “For old times’ sake,” he adds, breathing a laugh.

Raphael beams at him, that crooked, chipped-tooth smile, bright as sunlight gleaming off the snow outside, and Dedue wonders how anyone ever manages to deny him anything.

They process outside, Ignatz in tow, Raphael bandaging his own hands as he goes. The movement for him is quick, practiced. He’d always been the better with his fists, and Ignatz had mentioned his habit of challenging likely-looking patrons to spar.

Despite his gentle smile, Dedue’s teeth clench on the inside of his cheek, and he tells himself that it’s foolish to be anxious. It’s only a little spar, after all.

And then Raphael rolls those broad shoulders, stretches out thick arms, shrugs out of his shirt like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and Dedue suddenly feels as though he’s not foolish to be anxious at all.

Ignatz waves him off the patio with a smile, though, a quick well-wish, and there’s really no hesitating after that. He steps out into the inn’s little front garden, cracks his knuckles, takes a breath. Squares up.

“Alright!” says Ignatz, wrapping his shawl around his shoulders, “I-- I’ll make hot cocoa for whoever wins, so do your best! Though I suppose the loser can have some too...”

Raphael barks a laugh, flashing his husband an adoring look. He flexes, showing off, and Ignatz isn’t the only one who blushes. “Gimme a kiss if I win, alright, pumpkin?”

“I’d do that anyway! Now--go for it!”

Kindly, Raphael gives him a second to prepare himself. Dedue raises his arms, guards. They’re going by Garreg Mach rules, they’d decided, so he doesn’t need to protect his face, but--it’s best to hedge his bets. He really--now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t wrestled since the war.

He breaks left, dodging a blow that he’s certain Raphael threw too slowly on purpose--though he appreciates the leeway. Dedue adjusts his stance, shifts his weight, throws one of his own.

Quick enough--he makes it, feels his knuckles crash into Raphael’s obliques through the padding, but it’s like punching a wall. Raphael has filled out since the war, gotten thicker, and he _used_ to be an ox. 

Stunning smile intact, Raphael whirls to meet him, surging into his space. Dedue blocks with his left, but he’s on the back foot, has been since the beginning.

Dedue feints, jockeying for space, and he can feel the lather building on his skin. His chest is heaving, the winter air stinging his throat, his lungs, and he isn’t sure when he started to love it.

Ever since he’s gotten here, ever since he left Faerghus, ever since--oh, he doesn’t know, he’s been riding that knife’s edge between exhaustion and listlessness.

But now he’s here, losing ground, and it’s all he can do to guard his belly, and his blood feels like it’s _moving_ again.

And then Raphael crashes into him, shoulder first, and Dedue can feel the heat radiating off of him, can see him reddening down his chest, can hear him growling with effort, breathing like a draft horse.

Something at the back of Dedue’s mind kicks to life, demanding that he _throw it throw it lose lose lose._

But there’s no honor in that--he digs his heels into the snow, grits his teeth, pushes back with all his weight, all his strength, and for just a moment, Raphael gives.

And Dedue is hearing something--passersby, maybe, or Ignatz cheering, but he wouldn’t have been able to make sense of it if he’d wanted to, with the grin Raphael gives him as he recovers his stance.

He’s laughing again, and even though the sound is ragged, half-winded, it’s still as bright and boyish as it’s ever been, and Dedue has only just registered that he’s off his guard when Raphael lunges for him, takes him to the ground.

He doesn’t go down hard, impact cushioned by the snow, but the breath is gone from him anyway. Raphael is above him, pinning him, those indefatigable thighs hemming in his hips, huge hands grasping at his wrists.

And Dedue tries to break, tries to force himself to the side, and he can’t. And Raphael is still beaming, and with each gulping breath his chest pushes against Dedue’s, and he’s been beaten.

Raphael is so warm, even in the snow, Dedue can see _steam_ rising off his body, can feel him burning through his own shirt, can hear his pulse--or is that his own? Can Raphael feel it? See the flaring of his face?

When did he go still?

“Three,” pants Raphael, straight into Dedue’s ear, and he shudders, his mind hurtling back to the last time he was here, the last time Raphael was over him like this, holding him fast against his mattress, fucking him sure and steady and so, _so deep--_

“Two.”

And Dedue is shivering, and it’s got nothing to do with the cold, and that squirming thing behind his brain is begging him to do _something,_ and, and--

And then there is a noise that Dedue has no idea how to place, and Raphael’s arms give out, collapsing onto him in shock, in peals of laughter.

“I-I win!” Ignatz pipes up, from the patio, and Dedue is horribly perplexed until he sees the remnants of a snowball slipping off of Raphael’s shoulder, remembers that for all his meekness, Ignatz is possessed of deadly aim.

And then he’s laughing too, a rare all-consuming thing, deep in his chest, and he can barely breathe with it as Raphael rolls off of him, extending a cold hand to help him up.

* * *

That afternoon, Dedue’s pacing, his anxious, pent-up tidying finally persuades Raphael to let him in the kitchen. “Only if you’re not gonna go and _work_ in there,” he says, hands on hips, in a tone that he probably thinks is stern. Dedue nods, and promises, flashes a demure little smile, and then is gone.

He’s in such a hurry that he doesn’t even register the way Raphael’s face colors at the sight of him, his even-tempered enthusiasm.

One he reaches the kitchen, all airy and sunlit, with the evening’s stew steaming over a low fire--Dedue relaxes. Lays his hands flat on the countertop. Sighs.

It’s not that he’s unable to cook at the palace--theoretically, he could pop in any time he liked, be given the run of the place, of its high-heaped larders, extensive equipment, its veritable army of undercooks and scullery maids. 

Theoretically.

Even if there was time, even if he could part the sea of paperwork, of diplomatic nonsense long enough to get down there--the palace at Fhirdiad ran like the finest automaton, well-oiled, beautifully efficient. To simply--drop in on a whim, well, a dignitary such as the Ambassador to Duscur would be given a wide berth, would halt the entire operation until he’d had his fill of dallying down there.

So. This kitchen, with its quietude, its gentle undercurrent of activity, its soft background noise?

_Deliverance._

Dedue ties on an apron--it must be one of Raphael’s, because it fits, because it’s mottled all over with faded stains--and gets to work.

He finds things easily enough, gathers flour, eggs, coarse dark sugar. The selection of spices is a little sparse, but he finds some of what he’s looking for and can make substitutions for the rest. Heavy stoneware mixing bowls, battered wooden spoons.

For the first time in several hours, he does not fixate on the match.

As ever, Dedue hums as he works--a soft medley of songs from Duscur, some recalled more clearly than others. Heroic ballads, work songs, the lullabies his father sang him as a child. The accompaniment doesn’t exactly match the recipe, though--he’s coasting his way through recreating a cake served at Fhirdiad in the winter, dense and tender, with thick streaks of cinnamon arcing through the batter.

It’s not a perfect replication--the flavor isn’t spot-on, but Raphael and Ignatz can be forgiven for not keeping expensive cardamom on hand. And it’s rather more... rustic, than the original, but that was the intention.

He’s doubled the recipe, so there’s enough for Raphael to have two pieces, for a tiny sliver for Daisy, for the inn’s guests to each have a slice.

And when dinner’s through, when travelers and merchants have finished clapping him on the back, faces split with smiles, have finished giving their ample compliments to the chef--he insists on helping with the dishes.

It’s just when they’re finished, as he’s drying the last plate, that Raphael hangs the tea towel haphazardly over its rod, turns to his little husband and asks “now?”

Dedue can hear Ignatz’s assenting noise, and then a grunt as Raphael hoists him by the waist, ferries him over so he can leave a little peck on Dedue’s cheek.

When he pulls away, when Raphael sets him down with a huff--Dedue is still reeling, a bit, fingertips gentle on that part of his face, feeling his skin heat.

He doesn’t know what to say, and so just--smiles, and carries on drying the plate, and picks up humming his little tune.

* * *

It’s that night, or perhaps the next, when Dedue wakes to the sound of Daisy fussing. Well--doesn’t _wake_ as such, he wasn’t _really_ asleep--still turning over the scant seconds he spent beneath Raphael’s scorching bulk. Shifting between the sheets, rubbing tense thighs together.

But the sound snaps him to awareness, rouses him.

His throat is dry, so he stumbles downstairs for a glass of cider--they make the most wonderful apple cider in this town, and it’s always in ample supply at the inn.

The fire is lit, though, in the little sitting room off the kitchen, so he stops. Blinks his bleary eyes--it’s Ignatz, curled up in his armchair, a blanket draped over one shoulder.

Dedue can see Daisy’s soft little form nestled under it--Ignatz cradles her with one arm, holding her up to nurse, and sketches with the other.

“I’m sorry to disturb you--” murmurs Dedue, but Ignatz only shakes his head.

“No, please. Have a seat.”

So he does, he gets his cider and sits down opposite him, in Raphael’s massive chair. Waits patiently as Ignatz attends his drawing. It’s a familiar habit to Dedue--he can’t count how many times he’s seen Ignatz like this, absorbed. Considering, making slow, deliberate lines with his charcoal, murmuring to himself.

Ever since they were students, it’s been Dedue’s favorite way to see him. The pink tip of his tongue between his lips, his sleeves cuffed up, slender wrists smeared grey. All of his fine features--all of his angles seem to sharpen with his concentration.

And more than that, he looks--at home. Even at Garreg Mach, when he shied away from half of everything, when he was curled up sketching, Ignatz was the master of his domain. And now, in his own home, with his baby at his breast, it’s only--more so.

This is where Ignatz takes command. The world on the page is _his,_ and it lends him an intensity no duller for the fact that it is couched in comfort.

Dedue, as always, finds himself entranced. Forgets his mug of cider on the side table, just... leans forward in his chair. Observing.

Ignatz is _beautiful_ like this, compelling, there’s no other way to describe him, but it’s with an entirely different kind of reverence that Dedue watches him.

With Raphael--watching him trundle around his home, listening to his boisterous tales, his good-natured jokes, sparring with him, being _under_ him--there is something inside Dedue like a lit lantern, something hot and sustained and bright, something that _wants_ in a way that he’s only just becoming familiar with.

And for Ignatz... it isn’t that he _doesn’t_ feel that way. That he doesn’t think about... things, perhaps, he shouldn’t. The way the low firelight glints off the brass rims of his glasses, his focus-bitten lips. His cornsilk hair, getting longer, tapering to a feathery curl around his ear. How his freckled skin would feel, under his loose-fitting, comfortable clothes, his ever-present painter’s apron.

But he doesn’t have to touch him _just now._

He can watch. Can wait. Wants to, even. Just to... spend time with him, in this soft midnight hour, listening to the baby’s breathing, the intermittent creak of the floorboards overhead. Charcoal scratching against paper, the little living sounds of the fire.

Dedue starts, jerks his head away when Ignatz looks up, making some laughable attempt at pretending he’s not been staring.

“I’m sorry,” Ignatz says, and Dedue’s eyes cannot help but snap back to his sheepish smile. “You’ve been sitting here all this time, and I’ve been... off in my little world.” He scrunches up his eyes, good-natured, and Dedue’s fingers twitch in his lap, craving suddenly to smooth over his delicate brow.

“N-no,” he manages, low and breathy. “I, ah. If I may--I enjoy watching you work.”

And then Ignatz is blushing, as if he’s never considered that possibility, even though Dedue has been sitting placid at his side, utterly content to watch him draw since the Academy.

“Oh! I--that’s alright! Here,” he says, shifting his weight, adjusting his hold on Daisy. Sitting straighter, surging softly with some new eagerness. “Would you like to see?”

It’s not something he’s ever asked before. Dedue’s lips part with the little shock of it, and he nods. “I would be honored to.”

So Ignatz flips the sketchbook up, holds it in the flickering light.

Dedue’s breath leaves his body entirely.

The focal point of the page is--it takes Dedue a second to realize that it’s a self-portrait, looking down. The curves of Ignatz’s shoulder, the slight rise of his breast gives in to Daisy’s soft, curly head, the roundness of her cheek, the splay of her little arm across her father’s chest. Her eye is half-closed, focused, serene.

It’s lovely, and if it were the only thing on the page, it’d still be very much a sight. But--it’s _covered,_ not a square inch left blank on the thing, Ignatz clearly not one to waste space.

Beside Ignatz’s arm, there’s a face that Dedue recognizes as one of the inn’s patrons, a weatherbeaten merchant woman with a deeply wrinkled smile. Left of her is the cat he’s seen around the place, who the morning prior left a mouse outside his door.

It’s not surprising that the page is adorned with several little Raphaels--his grinning face, the wide yoke of his back, the stance he takes when he’s about to spar. There’s a study of his chest, of his belly, filled out since the war, and it’s so--true to what Dedue has seen of him, has _felt._

But what’s most stunning about the thing is that it’s covered in drawings of _him._

His face, mainly, in all its variations on weariness. On _relief--_ Dedue has to wonder if he really looks like that, so exhausted and yet so... unburdened.

It must be, because Ignatz draws with such a sensitivity, renders loved ones and strangers alike with such an accuracy, such a practiced eye.

And, when Dedue gives it a moment of thought, it’s how he feels.

“These are... incredible,” he breathes, once he finds his voice again. “Your skill is to be admired.”

Ignatz laughs, soft and breathy, and Dedue can see a deeper flush creeping in between his freckles--but he takes the compliment. Even a couple of years ago, when the war ended, Dedue is uncertain if he would have.

“Thank you,” Ignatz says, peering under the blanket to check the baby. Another giggle--it seems she’s fallen fast asleep, pudgy little face drooping against his chest. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he explains, “since we’ve moved here. I have more time than I’d expected, and... so many wonderful subjects.”

Dedue nods. “You live in a beautiful place,” he acknowledges, “and you have a beautiful family.”

If Ignatz had been smiling before, had been pleased--what’s on his face now is _bliss._

“I’m very lucky,” he tells him, softly. Lays his free hand over the rise of Daisy’s back, feeling her breathe. “And I’m--lucky to have you here, as well. I just... tonight, I really needed to draw you.”

Dedue’s teeth catch instinctive in his lips, his eyes darting down to his lap, studying his own folded hands. “I can see that. It must be... difficult, while you’re holding little Daisy.”

“It was easier when she was smaller. But I make do. This and... everything, really. I’ve been feeling much more capable.” He sighs, but then shakes himself sudden out of it. “B-but don’t let me go on about myself!”

“No, do. It--I’m pleased to hear that you’ve been well.”

Ignatz demurs, chewing for a moment on his cheek. Adjusting his glasses, glancing over to check on the fire.

“I--I just... suppose that there are more things I can do than I ever thought. I mean--” he pauses, collecting himself. “I helped bring peace to Fódlan, and I’ve had a child of my own, and--and one of my paintings is hanging in the dining room at Claude’s _palace_ in Almyra... I don’t know. I don’t mean to brag.”

Dedue only smiles, that feeling--that deferred yearning, like sitting down with a cup of tea while something’s in the oven--welling up in him again. “You have much to be proud of. Your husband as well, and... I suppose, myself.”

“Of course you do!” says Ignatz, his words all in a rush. “You’re doing amazing work! Rebuilding your homeland, and everything you do for the king... of course you should be proud!”

Dedue reaches a shaking hand out toward the table, lifts his mug to his lips, if only so he can have something to do with his mouth. Otherwise, he might--might make the most undignified expression...

“I, er, Dedue.”

“Yes?”

That little burst of confidence is... waning, faltering, but there’s enough of it still there. Behind the flames reflected in his glasses, Dedue sees determination in Ignatz’s eyes. “T-there was something I was going to ask you.”

“Do.”

Ignatz takes one steadying breath, clearing his head. It’s a familiar gesture to Dedue--it’s something he’s seen Raphael do before battle. “I... In the past, when you’ve visited us... oh, this is embarrassing.”

Dedue just curls his fingers around the stoneware mug, sits patient. “You are fine,” he says, simply.

Ignatz nods. He’s fine. “Y-you’ve gone... to bed, with my husband.”

He has, and blushes to remember it, pulse kicking up. With Ignatz’s express permission, of course. His blessing, even--he’d smiled, the last time, waved coyly as Raphael had led Dedue upstairs.

But-- “would you prefer that I--not?”

“No, no!” Ignatz raises his free hand, and Dedue smiles internally, seeing that it’s smudged all over with charcoal. “No, you’re--it’s completely fine. I was just wondering if--you’d like to, again?”

Dedue absolutely cannot help but be hurled back to the sparring match, panting on his back, the sense memory of the snow, of the smell of Raphael’s sweat so acute that he starts, shifts nervy in his chair.

“I... had hoped to,” he says, recovering himself.

And Ignatz smiles, pushing his glasses too far up his nose, nearly poking himself in the face. “Good! I--he’s told me that... he’d like to, also. But I-- I have to ask...” He takes another cleansing breath. “Would it be... alright if--if I joined you?”

There’s nothing for it--Dedue’s mind is wrenched out of the fight, filling up with--with so much he’s not even certain how to categorize it all. Old images, sure, the imagined contour of Ignatz’s waist, the lived experience of holding his shaking hand, of feeling soft lips against his cheek. And more--Ignatz bare in his husband’s arms, his voice soft and quavering as it is now, earnest, eager eyes without the shield of his glasses. The way it must feel to run hands over his body, to feel his scars and stretch marks...

And Dedue is carrying himself away with it, has no idea how long he’s been sitting there blank. Ignatz must think he’s horrified, dumbfounded in the wrong direction--so he marshals himself, smiles.

“If that’s truly what you’d like,” he says, and can hear his own voice strain and tremble.

Ignatz just nods, looking like--there’s an old Faerghan tradition that Dedue has been bullied into a couple of times, where around this time of year a hole is made in the ice of some lake, and people with that uniquely Faerghan combination of pride and masochism strip to their smalls and dive in, just to prove their hardiness.

Ignatz looks like he’s just a few minutes removed from having done _that,_ his face a blazing pink, his body just slightly shaking.

“It is.”

“Then I would be honored to have you.” He wonders if there’s more he ought to say, if that conveys--if that’s enough to show the light of the torch he carries.

“Delighted,” he adds, sheepish.

And Ignatz is grinning, those precious dimples forming in his cheeks, and Dedue’s heart is at least twice its regular size and racing, racing.

They sit for a moment, just--coasting, on the joy of it. Ignatz giggles, and has to stop himself, so as not to wake the baby.

“I--yes,” he finally manages, sounding as sure as if he’s just sold a painting. “I suppose... tomorrow, then? O-or whenever you’d like.”

“Tomorrow,” Dedue agrees, with a nod.

And they sit for a while after that, Dedue finishing his cider, Ignatz just-- humming softly to himself, having made enough direct eye contact for the night, and then they part, and bid each other goodnight. Ignatz insinuates his arm back into his shirt, lifts up the baby for Dedue to kiss.

Dedue does, and smiles, and sees himself back to bed, getting comfortable. It’s--a little difficult, even though the bed is lovely, the blankets warm. He’s just--he has to lie there for a while, just breathe.

He’s a patient man, always has been, but this...

It is, he’ll admit, a little difficult to sleep on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness! this is... so much longer than the first chapter... what on earth is consistency? what on earth is a cohesive storyline!?
> 
> i hope you've enjoyed this mishmash of little scenes--i know i had a great time writing them! this was my first time writing any kind of close-quarters combat, and to have it be sexy wrestling.... i've never felt so alive............
> 
> as always, let me know what you thought, and i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you'd like to hang out! i don't bite!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy the eleven thousand words of pornography that ate my life. if you find typoes, i do not want to hear about them. i am proud of this, certainly, and want it to be good, but i have toiled for the right to never look at this piece again.

The snow bears down around the inn the next night, and Ignatz stalls their card game to gaze out the sitting room window, his mouth hanging just a little open. Dedue smiles warmly at him, then turns to find the same expression on Raphael’s face, magnified a hundredfold.

He’s cradling the baby in one burly arm, nursing a mug of ale with the other, nestled back into his own easy chair, and with all of that love on his face... Dedue wonders if he’ll ever feel the way Raphael does right now. As if he could want for nothing else, as if asking for more would be laughable.

He wonders if he’ll ever find that same bone-deep satisfaction.

Thinks he might feel something approaching it, here. Even with everything he’s got on hold back in Fhirdiad, in Duscur—Dedue will never be truly _complete_ until he sees his homeland breathe again, until he sees all of Dimitri’s ambitions through as well.

But, for the time being, for this little stopover, this fortnight where nothing has to matter but his comfort, the company of his—friends, lovers…

What he has at this moment, sitting at this table, with half a glass of wine and a losing hand of cards, watching Ignatz enraptured by the falling snow, it’s enough.

He lifts his glass, tips it in a silent toast to Raphael. He smiles widely back at Dedue, and they drink. Ignatz turns back just then, a dazzled look on his face, and… “oh!” His deft hand darts to his own mug of cider, and he hastens to lift it up, splashing a little onto the tablecloth.

“Were we toasting something?”

Raphael just laughs, takes another pull at his drink. “I don’t know! I just look up and Dedue’s toasting me!”

Dedue nods, sets his wineglass gently on the table. Blushes. “I-I was merely… proposing a toast to you.”

Ignatz just smiles, glances to his husband and says “to us? No, no! You’d have to… it doesn’t seem right if it’s not to you as well, Dedue. Right?”

Raphael concurs, and, setting down his ale, waves Daisy’s little arm to make it look as if she’s agreeing, too. “You’re our friend, and we kinda… we think of you as like family! You know, if that’s alright.”

Dedue is generally a laconic man, but he’s very rarely entirely speechless. Still, at this moment, he can’t think of a word to say to that, to these people who have taken him into their home, who have extended him such hospitality…

Maybe it’s the wine making him sentimental—but he’s only had half a glass. He smiles, wide and warm and wobbly, and blinks his eyes in the vain hope that they won’t mist over.

Raises his glass once more. His companions raise theirs in tandem, grinning heartily.

“To us!” Raphael proclaims, clanking their glasses together, drinking lustily.

Ignatz echoes him, and Dedue follows—though his voice is a little unsteady, wavering just a touch. With no free hands, Raphael flashes him a sympathetic look, prompting Ignatz to lay a comforting palm over his.

And Dedue catches himself staring again, at the gentle curve of Ignatz’s fingers over the back of Dedue’s wide hand, at the charcoal dust beneath trimmed fingernails, at the writer’s bump on the last slender knuckle of his middle finger.

A sound jars him out of it—Raphael’s empty mug coming to rest on the table, his great sigh of satisfaction. The creaking of the leather upholstery as he rises, Daisy’s chatter.

“I, uh, was gonna go put Daisy down now,” he says, and the edge of anxiety in his tone just speaks to suggestion, makes Dedue feel suddenly warm as he’s been doing in fits and starts all day. “D’you two want anything while I’m up?”

Dedue just shakes his head, follows suit as Ignatz wishes his daughter a good night. Watches the steady expanse of Raphael’s back as he carries her upstairs, humming a tuneless lullaby.

Ignatz doesn’t move his hand, just—holds it there, gently, brushing his thumb over the ridges of Dedue’s knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, “if that was too much for you.”

A shake of Dedue’s head, another sip of wine. “No, no. I am… honored.”

“And we’re honored to have you.” He pauses a moment, gaze gravitating once more to the driving snow outside. “Are you… ready for tonight? Y-you don’t have to be.”

Dedue’s teeth catch in his lower lip. “I am,” he says, voice low. “Are you?”

“I think so! I’m… excited,” Ignatz admits, as though it’s a scandalous thing. His cheeks are burning and Dedue wants to touch them, wants to drag the backs of his fingers across the smooth freckled skin, soothing.

“Myself as well,” Dedue says, and means it ardently.

* * *

It’s a little while before Raphael trundles back down those creaking stairs, grinning, humming a different off-key tune from when he went up. This one is livelier, a harvest festival standard, the kind of song to twirl your young love around a bonfire to.

They’ve finished their card game while they waited—Ignatz was winning anyway, as he always does—and their drinks, so Ignatz rises as soon as Raphael enters the room, and Dedue is quick to follow.

Raphael flashes that bright boyish smile of his, sweeps his husband right off his feet, taking care not to jostle his glasses. Ignatz laughs into the plane of his chest, tilts his face up to look at him adoringly.

“Y’all ready? S’okay if you’re not.”

“I asked,” Ignatz says, “and we’re—we’re alright. We’re ready.”

Dedue nods, feeling his face and palms, his entire _body_ heating.

“Good, good! Me too,” says Raphael, ducking his head to lay a quick kiss on his husband. “C’mon, pumpkin, let’s get you upstairs.”

And as he’s starting for the staircase, as Dedue follows in step behind him, Raphael turns with a mischievous grin. “Don’t you go following me, you can bet I’ll carry you, too.”

He’s gone after that, the protest of the stairwell in his wake, all underscored by Ignatz’s sweet laughter. And Dedue… waits, and hopes very much that Raphael will be able to pick him up. He’s—not a small man, and he can’t remember the last time someone’s been able to actually _lift_ him.

It sends—just the littlest thrill through him, puts a new verve in his heartbeat, sets him just slightly warmer under the collar.

Raphael makes his return, extending his broad, thick-muscled arms, and Dedue goes to him, leans into him, and Raphael grimaces, makes a little strained noise, but then he’s… he’s _off the floor._

Dedue swears, in that instant, that he could be convinced that Raphael is the one to hang the moon.

“You barely weigh a thing!” Raphael proclaims, and there is a sweet, glorious tumult in Dedue’s body, as if all of his organs are an assembled council to whom he has just given excellent news. “I _swear_ they’re not feeding you up there. Anyway, you good?”

Dedue nods, and remembers belatedly that he ought to close his mouth. But Raphael doesn’t seem fazed at all, just—puts his back into it, hefts Dedue’s center of gravity closer to his chest, makes for the stairs.

He can barely hear the sound of them over the rush of his own pulse, over Raphael’s absentminded hum, over that thing in the back of his head, clawing its way forth, making a serious case for him to sigh, to go ragdoll-limp, to lay his head against Raphael’s soft shoulder.

He’s just about worked up the courage to go for it when Raphael reaches their end of the hallway, nudges the door open with his foot, bears him triumphantly over the threshold of his and Ignatz’s room.

Still, he doesn’t put him down right away, holding out even though Dedue can feel his arms begin to shake, can see sweat begin to glimmer on his brow. He sallies forth, still smiling blithe and broad, holding Dedue steady in his arms until he reaches the edge of their bed, lays him gingerly down with his head against a pillow.

Dedue’s own arms slip from around his shoulders, and he finds himself—wanting to reach for him, to cling to that safe solid body just a little longer.

But it’s alright, it really is, because Raphael’s got to close the door and lock it, and Dedue—really, honestly needs a moment to breathe. And it’s not as if he’s alone; Ignatz sits next to him, legs hanging over the edge of the bed, fingers working the knot out of his apron ties. They’re shaking a little, and Dedue worries until Ignatz turns, fixes him with a face full of exhilaration, of nervous energy that refuses to go sour.

So he helps—hefts himself up, reaches over to tug at the stubborn knots himself. When he’s finished, when Ignatz shrugs the thing over his shoulders, forgets it instantly on the nightstand, Dedue lays a warm hand on his back, steadying even as he’s quivering himself.

Ignatz faces him again as he slips his glasses off, and Dedue had thought he’d needed a deep breath when he’d gotten into the room, but _this…_

It’s not as if he’d never seen Ignatz’s bare face, before. They’d gone to school together, lived together. He was always fiddling with his glasses, always cleaning them on the hems of his shirts, holding them up to the light to check for smears. But here, in the dim firelight, sitting on the same bed, it is utterly, totally different.

And as much as Raphael is—gorgeous, intoxicating to him, Dedue barely notices when his bulk settles beside him on the mattress, making the bedsprings creak, because all he can hear, can _feel_ is that thrumming, scintillating thing begging _can I kiss him can I kiss him can I kiss him?_

“Ignatz,” Dedue says, his voice raspy, like he’s never had a drink of water in his life, “may I kiss you?”

He nods, leaning down to him with that same artist’s focus in his eyes, the same sweet smile he wears when he’s washing dishes with his husband, making certain that Dedue gets his rest.

And then Ignatz kisses him, head angling careful to the side, and he’s—he’s so _warm._ Blushing like anything, his face just _radiating_ heat, and Dedue can’t think of anything to do to settle him besides keep kissing him, gently, lips only slightly parted.

Ignatz slumps a little into him, hums a little sigh against his mouth, and Dedue lays one palm softly, without weight on Ignatz’s shoulder. He’s not startled at all to find Raphael’s broad hand already there.

They stay like that, patient, letting Ignatz conduct them like a little orchestra, waiting for his cues. When he parts his lips against Dedue’s, when he pulls back for just one second, soft-eyed, a little dazed, to shift himself, to lay down alongside him, close enough to brush against him in some places. Even fully-clothed, even though the contact is limited, just Dedue’s hand still on his shoulder, the incidental touch here and there of a hand, a knee—it travels through Dedue, slowly, as if he’s a teapot just starting to steep.

It’s another long moment before they break, after Ignatz has come a little closer, widened his mouth against Dedue’s, loosened up enough to start just—whimpering, softly, when Dedue’s done something right. And when he pulls away, he’s gorgeous, his hair a little mussed from his movement against the pillow, his lips a blushing slick pink.

“H-hello,” he says, that same watery smile reforming on his face. “Was that alright?”

Dedue’s heart feels like it’s leaking, like some little dam has burst in there, and he nods, entirely helpless. He wants to—to gather Ignatz as close as he can have him, to hold him close, to soften him even further, to make him feel—fulfilled and happy and safe.

And he _gets to._

He’s still a little dizzy with that when he hears Raphael speak, when he feels Ignatz lean away to list against his husband, feels the mattress shift under him, as they lie side by side by side.

“That good, pumpkin? C’mere.”

Ignatz darts forward, kissing Raphael with a new certainty in his movements. Dedue props himself up on his elbow, just—watches. He’s seen them kissing before, it would be impossible for him not to, it’s nearly a constant thing in their house. But it’s still—sweet, to watch the easy way they come together, to hear the suggestions of laughter in their breathing, to see their hands trace familiar patterns over each other’s necks, shoulders, upper backs. Dedue has seen, thousands of times, the slow process of a flower coming into bloom. It’s an intermittent thing, measured in glances over the course of hours, days, but here he feels as if he’s watching it all at once.

They aren’t together for nearly as long, though, Ignatz slipping away, craning his neck, flashing Dedue his sweet, almost giddy face.

“Hm? Pumpkin?”

“Well,” says Ignatz, “we can’t have all the fun. We have a _guest,”_ he explains, as if scolding, and Raphael just laughs.

“Can’t be bad hosts, I s’pose. You wanna make Dedue feel welcome?”

Ignatz nods, turning in Raphael’s arms, slipping one hand free to lay on Dedue’s wide warm chest, to feel his breathing, the anticipatory speeding of his pulse. Kisses him once more, so calm, so open, curling his fingers in the collar of Dedue’s shirt, making soft staccato sounds into his mouth.

He starts, a little, shivering, tugging at his handful of Dedue’s shirt—and then melts with a soft sigh, and when Dedue looks up to see what’s changed, Raphael’s lips are pressed to the hollow of his husband’s neck, suckling, bound to leave little love bites. Dedue’s glimpsed them on Ignatz, since he’s been at the inn, dappling his neck, his shoulder, the beginning of his chest. None of them harsh, and most of them fading, but… Ignatz would reach for them, subconscious, brush them with his fingertips.

It all floods over Dedue at once, and suddenly he isn’t sure if he’d like to make those sorts of marks or to be marked himself, but—he shudders with it, _longing,_ whimpering into Ignatz’s mouth.

Ignatz leans away, loosing his hold on Dedue’s shirt, gentle fingers coming to brush against his cheek, his sharp jaw.

“Alright?”

Dedue sighs, and steadies himself, lets himself still with the sight of Ignatz’s gentle smile, and Raphael’s, looking up, brows knit with concern.

And there’s an old, old instinct telling him to just _be fine,_ to let it go on, to not impose, but he’s not…

He’s starting to believe that Raphael and Ignatz don’t think he _can_ impose, so he breathes, shaky, and murmurs “hold me?”

A little grin spreads across Ignatz’s face, shining, like a sunshower, and Raphael laughs softly in that way of his, like he’s never made fun of anyone in his life, as if he’s just delighted to be here.

“We’ll take care of you!” he says, warm and steadfast, and Ignatz nods, shuffling closer, laying himself entire against the line of Dedue’s body. Nuzzling into his chest, the soft homespun fabric of his shirt, humming a little.

And then the bed shifts, creaking, and there’s a little awkward shuffling around as Raphael hustles to the other side, finds room for himself against Dedue’s back, laying one strong arm down in the dip of his waist, reaching to lay his palm over his husband’s ribs.

“This good?” he asks, and Dedue can feel his breath hot in his ear, over the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck. He hums assent—it _is_ good. Grounding.

And they lay like that, for a while, letting their breathing fall into sync. Raphael’s broad hand brushes against Dedue’s as they both stroke Ignatz’s slender back, the ridges of his spine—but Raphael just laughs, a low rumble that Dedue can _feel_ with how close he is, withdraws, lays his hand gentle, questioning on Dedue’s ribcage.

For an instant, Dedue is self-conscious—he used to be better-muscled, there, sturdier, but… well, it’s _Raphael._ For everything Raphael has said about Dedue’s loss of weight, of muscle mass, it’s all come from a place of care, of—love.

So he murmurs a yes, and sighs at the feel of Raphael’s warm hand smoothing over his side, through the valley of his waist, fingers brushing his sensitive sides. It comes to rest on his hip, the pad of Raphael’s thumb rubbing slow circles into a sliver of skin below his shirt, and Dedue’s eyes slip closed, his breath catching with even the slightest suggestion.

Ignatz must take notice, with that painter’s eye of his, and he breathes a laugh, kissing the corner of Dedue’s mouth. And Dedue leans into it, nudges forward, chases Ignatz’s soft lips as he pulls away to kiss at his cheek, his ear, the sensitive underside of his jaw.

“M-may I kiss your neck, Dedue?” he asks, so sweetly reticent that Dedue can’t think for a second, between that and Raphael’s hand on his bare skin, the soft warmth of the bodies around him.

Says, belatedly, voice trembling, “please.”

And then Ignatz’s mouth is on his neck, lips dragging gentle over soft skin, mouthing at the point of Dedue’s pulse. And Dedue—has known that he’s sensitive, there, where he’s always so buttoned-up, shielded behind armored gorgets, his ever-present scarf, but he hadn’t quite remembered the _intensity_ of it. His voice shatters like an eggshell, dripping, and Raphael murmurs soft soothing nonsense to him, brings his fingers just a little further up under the hem of his shirt, on the thin skin just down from his hipbone.

Ignatz starts suckling his neck in earnest, and it feels—so _much,_ his mouth is so warm, his hair so silky where it brushes the underside of Dedue’s new-shaven jaw. He’s humming, a little, and Dedue can’t place the tune for the distraction of it, the lingering vibration on his skin.

He sighs, long and low and quivering, and then again, and there’s something like a _whine_ in it, a strain that nearly surprises even him, and then Raphael’s rough fingertips spread across his lower abdomen, where the muscle is always taut with one anxiety or another and Dedue gasps “Raphael, Raphael.”

And then “Ignatz!” because he feels Ignatz laugh at that, feels the little gust of his breath, the slightest graze of teeth, and it makes his heart trip over itself, makes his hips twitch against Ignatz’s soft warm thigh.

There’s something in him that tells him to _stop that,_ to be more of a gentleman, but Ignatz only laughs again, and Raphael the same, so kindly, and Dedue can’t _help_ himself.

“Feel good?” murmurs Raphael, in that husky voice of his, the one that’s always ringing in his mind when he can’t sleep, when his fingers work out a tension headache or slip between his thighs.

“I-I do,” Dedue tells him, voice stumbling as Raphael leans further into him, the hand flat on his belly gently guiding him backward, into the soft solid pressure that is overwhelming in the best way. There’s a heat to him, comforting and cheerful, like a bonfire, and Dedue is overcome by the desire to be _closer_ to him, to feel his breathing, his steady guiding heartbeat, his cock just starting to twitch, to pulse at the small of Dedue’s back. And to bring Ignatz along, to keep that slightly sharp sensation at his neck, to keep dragging his broad hands across Ignatz’s back, up the ladder of his vertebrae, to thread fingers through his hair.

And he does, and there’s a moment, a microcosm where it’s _perfect,_ so warm, so soothing, and then all of a sudden it’s not enough and he sighs, shuddering, face curling into Ignatz’s soft soap-smelling hair.

Ignatz leans away, and smiles at him, his lips shining, swollen, eyes crinkling at the corners, and even though he clearly isn’t certain what he ought to say it’s lovely, and Dedue can’t help but kiss him again, at the bridge of his nose where his glasses have left permanent divots.

“Is there something more you want?” asks Ignatz, softly, looking down, and then there’s that phrase again, “we’ll take care of you,” that feels like—sliding into a perfectly warm, scented bath, or curling up in bed on a cold night, like the way he’s felt in waves every moment since he’s been here.

And it’s lovely, and Dedue adores it, and he’s _utterly spoiled for choice._ It all rushes through him at once, like coursing down whitewater rapids—everything he’s thought of, when he let himself want. Ignatz’s gentle-curving lips, tender thighs, those talented fingers curling around the head of his cock, or Raphael’s great strength, marshaling them into whatever configuration he’d like, still taking such care…

And Dedue knows that he’s red, that his breath comes heavy, deep in his diaphragm, that Ignatz must be able to feel him growing hard, and. 

Inhales. Holds. Breathes out whatever shame he’s got left in him, leaves it downstairs in the entryway, stowed like a pair of mittens in the sleeve of his coat.

He tells himself that he doesn’t need it, now, in this warm quiet little room, held fast by those he loves. And then tells himself again, because even so, it’s never easy letting go.

“Ah,” he begins, and is a little startled by the uncertainty, the waver in his own voice. “If it’s—alright, I’d like…” And Ignatz smiles, knowing reticence like an old friend, catching Dedue by the wrist and moving his hand so their fingers are laced together, nestled between their bodies, over Ignatz’s heart.

“I’d like Raphael inside of me,” Dedue manages. He’s rewarded with a low hum, rumbling in Raphael’s chest, in his throat where it lies against Dedue’s shoulder, a slow, gentle rock of hips into his body. Dedue shivers, leaning back into him, wanting.

“Yeah? That right, honeybear?”

Dedue’s eyes go wide with the endearment—it’s new, and _novel,_ and it feels like being pinned all over again, that exhilaration when he went to the ground for Raphael. His breath catches in his throat, making a little shard of a noise, and Raphael’s warm hand travels further up his shirt, resting in the soft arch between each half of his ribcage.

Still.

“Unless,” Dedue says, sudden, feeling both his partners stiffen, just the littlest bit, as if pricking up their ears, “unless Ignatz would prefer—”

But Ignatz just shakes his head, squeezes Dedue’s hand a little tighter. “D-don’t stop on my account,” he insists, laying a reassuring kiss on the apple of Dedue’s cheek, “I want you to—to have what _you_ want.”

Raphael concurs with another low hum, reverberating in the scant space between them, and Dedue loosens again at the feel of it. “This is for you!” he says, cheery, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, it’s for all of us, but Dedue— we wanna help you relax! You can have whatever you want.”

“And besides,” he continues, voice lowering, almost conspiratorial, “you seem like you need to get fucked right, and I wanna try to do that for you.”

And Dedue—fairly swoons at that, heat lancing through him, and he can’t help but give a little nudge of his hips, find some relief against the inside curve of Ignatz’s thigh. He’s perfectly willing to provide it, listing gentle into him, little smile melting wider.

“I—yes,” Dedue sighs, after he finds his way back into his right mind, if only just for a second. “But—Ignatz, I—forgive me, but I don’t have experience with… ah—disciples of Saint Cichol?”

Ignatz just shakes his head. “Y-you’re alright,” he assures him, “I think for the time being, I’ll just—kind of, watch? If that’s alright? And later, if you still want to—we can help you.” Dedue feels Raphael nod behind him, concurrent, and a little more of his ballast falls away. He wants—needs, even, to be good to Ignatz, who is so lovely, who has been so sweet to him, extending his home, his understanding, his body.

Another one, then, and Dedue feels the curve of Ignatz’s smile against his lips, can hear the contented laughter in his breathing. Feels Raphael sigh appreciative at the sight, slip his hand from under Dedue’s shirt to pet his husband’s hip.

Ignatz keens at that, and shifts, wrapping one leg around Dedue’s, ankle coming to rest at Raphael’s knee. He’s so warm, between his thighs, even through all of their clothes Dedue is suffused with the heat of him, answering with his own, and with every motion of his hips he comes closer to him. Wonders how it might feel to frot against him bare, to feel him soft and slick and hot, to press gentle, tentative _inside_ of him, feel the clutch of him, hear his half-formed little moans.

And Raphael overwhelms him from the other side, searing hot and solid, grinding against him now in earnest, huffing heavy breaths into his ear. It’s as if every time he moves there’s some new sensation, heady, and Dedue has always been a patient man, but at this moment it feels like all he can do is _want._

He sighs, shifting his weight, angling his hips back against Raphael’s where he’s so stiff, and Dedue swears Raphael must be aching, pressing into him like that, twitching at his backside, and for all that he wants—to be taken care of, to finally feel himself sated, he craves being that same satisfaction for Raphael, for Ignatz, and he shudders, and Raphael’s big warm hand slides back over his belly, smoothing up over his skin, callused fingertips trailing over his breastbone and he can’t abide waiting any longer, is very nearly humbled enough to _beg._

But Raphael doesn’t make him, leaning up to kiss the shell of his ear, to speak to him in a too-loud whisper that vibrates through all his bones like his body’s a struck tuning fork. “Getting excited?” he asks, fingers stroking the soft swell of his breast. “Do you want it, honeybear?”

And there it is again, _honeybear,_ so—so saccharine, so genuine that he can’t help but curl in on himself, press his burning face into the crook of Ignatz’s shoulder, whimpering.

“I do,” he says, strangled, a tiny sound, and feels himself throbbing, thrumming with it, with this—neediness, that he’d never have permitted himself with anyone else.

“Please,” Dedue adds, helpless, honest, without shame. And Raphael just—kisses him, behind his ear, at the crown of his head. Leans away, that warm hand sliding slow over Dedue’s ribcage, his waist until Raphael is propped up beside him, and Dedue turns, thunderstruck by the wide unfettered smile he wears.

“Want us to get you out of those clothes?”

“Please,” Dedue repeats, as if it’s the only word he knows anymore, and Raphael—must be endeared, because he reaches out, tousles his hair like Dedue’s seen him do with Ignatz. He slides his fingers across Dedue’s scalp with a gentle deep pressure, like a massage, until he reaches the simple strip of cloth he’s been using to keep it up. Pulls it loose, watches Dedue’s hair fall, taking in his little sigh as he realizes just how tightly it was bound.

“That’s a start,” he says proudly, combing those thick fingers through, tugging soft at tangles. “Pumpkin, you want to help Dedue with his shirt?”

Ignatz nods, shuffles up to his knees, giving Dedue a shy little kiss on his cheek, another on the tip of his nose. Dedue’s fingers twitch with the desire to pull him in and kiss him proper, hold him in his lap, rut up again into that softness, but—that’s not the goal just now.

“May I?” asks Ignatz, bashful, and Dedue nods, letting small hands smooth down his shoulders, his chest, sliding across sensitive nipples and making him gasp. Ignatz looks sheepish, he hadn’t _meant_ to, but Dedue just shakes his head, musters up a wobbly smile.

Ignatz’s fingers hesitate, curled into the rolled hem of Dedue’s shirt, but with an assenting nod he goes for it, staring reverently downward as he reveals Dedue’s skin by degrees, wondering at his scars, the remnants of his wartime muscle. And his face is so sweet, so—reflective of the way Dedue felt, the first time he saw Raphael bare, the way he feels when he imagines Ignatz that he can’t even think of feeling embarrassed. He just—raises his arms, lets Ignatz lift his shirt away, humming to himself as he folds it, leaves it neatly on the nightstand. Dedue’s heart clenches at the care he’s taking, wheedling at him to find out if there’s anything he can give Ignatz in return.

But Ignatz just—puts himself back to the task, blushing even harder, cheeks as red and round as apples as his fingers drift to the waistband of Dedue’s pants, the blunt tips of his fingernails just barely brushing his skin. He doesn’t have to ask, now, Dedue just leans back, lifts his hips, tensing at the feel of Ignatz fumbling with his buttons, his fingers, the heels of his hands brushing incidental where Dedue needs him the most.

Ignatz opens his mouth to say something—apologize, probably, but Dedue shakes his head again, affectionate, and wishes again that Ignatz was closer, that he could hold and gentle him, make him feel the same adoration that Ignatz radiates for him. He stops a moment, his hand moving questioning-slow, and at Dedue’s bitten-lip smile makes contact, palm sweaty against the plane of his thigh, coming to rest just under the hem of Dedue’s smallclothes.

“You’re—” he begins, a little tremor in his voice, “you’re so—” and it seems he just can’t find the word, his eyes still fixed on Dedue’s stretch-marked, scarred skin. “I could paint you just like this,” he says, resolved, and leaves Dedue’s pants pooled just above his knees as he just—stares a moment, as if mixing the colors on a palette in his mind.

And Dedue feels—hot, shaky, like he’s been napping in the summer sun, and his cock jumps, visibly, making Ignatz giggle. He carries on undressing him, folding his pants and even pairing his socks, laying them on the nightstand in their turn.

Returning, Ignatz lays himself alongside Dedue, his hips fitting into the curve of Dedue’s waist, head resting on his breast, hand painting long aimless strokes across his chest, his abdomen, his hips. Traces the waistband of his smallclothes, watching the way it makes Dedue’s brow furrow.

“Can I—touch you?” he asks, and Dedue feels a pang, a little shock of anticipation run through him as he nods his consent.

So Ignatz does, though he has to shift his position to reach quite properly, reclining on one arm as his hand dips under the last of Dedue’s clothes and those delicate fingers wrap around him. Dedue sighs with a relief like a heal spell, like taking off his boots after hours of marching. His head falls back, listing to one side against the cool coverlet, and he purses his lips, breath just barely below a pant, little noises breaking off in his throat.

He’s almost startled when he feels the mattress settle once more under Raphael’s weight, but he’s more so when he opens his eyes, finds Raphael nude, sitting so close that he can feel the heat coming off that ruddy, ample hip.

Raphael is not exactly as Dedue had remembered him—he has continued his stroll down the path of peace, of comfort and love and indulgence, rounding out, packing on something of a belly. And Dedue since their school days had stolen glances at him, at the sheer size of him; even though he himself was tall, solid, Raphael always seemed—immovable. A fortress of a man, great and safe and comforting, and Dedue reaches for him, smoothing his hand down the weathered skin of his thick arm, _needing_ to be held, wrapped up in him.

And Raphael smiles down at him, lays one weighty hand on his heaving chest, petting him gently, eyes drooping with contentment. “Took me forever to get all my clothes off,” he admits, cheerful as anything, like some enormous songbird, “couldn’t help watching you two! Ig, pumpkin, you’re doin’ great,” he says, and that hand comes up to stroke his husband’s shoulder, trail down his arm until it’s so close to Dedue that he can barely restrain himself from bucking up, pressing his cock artless against his broad wrist. But he doesn’t, just—sighs, mumbles pleading.

Raphael turns to him, fixes him with the full force of his sunshine face, and Dedue’s eyes squint shut, all of his kindness overwhelming when heaped upon the steady glide of Ignatz’s hand, perfectly soft and slow. And he aches with it, can feel himself dripping over Ignatz’s fingers, can hear his little awed sigh at the feeling.

“Good?” Raphael asks, and Dedue hastens to nod, to huff out a _yes,_ a _please._

“That’s what I like to hear!” He reaches down, tugs at Dedue’s waistband. “Let’s get these off you, huh?”

Dedue arches his back so Raphael can undress him fully, cooing at the twitching muscles of his abdomen, the swollen head of his cock. Ignatz just carries on touching him, methodical like the strokes of his charcoal pencil, elegant and sweeping, and Dedue trembles under his hand, Raphael’s appreciative eyes.

“So pretty,” Raphael murmurs, and Dedue glances over to him just in time to see him reach for his own cock, give himself a couple pulls to ease the pressure. Dedue’s teeth sink into his lower lip, and he lets his twitching thighs fall outward, drawing up his knees, inviting. Raphael just shakes his head, though, holds up the hand that was on himself palm-out. “There’s no hurry, Dedue! Doesn’t seem like it, but I promise I can be patient.”

Ignatz laughs at that, hand faltering for just a second. “He’s had plenty of practice with me,” he says, sweet and self-effacing as ever, and Raphael reaches across Dedue’s body, gives his husband a tiny playful shove.

“I’d wait a million years for you no problem, pumpkin,” he insists, with an air of having said so many times before, “and for you, honeybear, so it’s okay.”

Another shock of warmth rolls over Dedue, like the incoming tide. He’s not sure if it’s—the endearment or just the _love_ that permeates this house like the smell of baking bread, but it rocks him, leaves him ever more unsteady.

“I—I am not… feeling very patient, just now,” he admits, voice cracking, and is met immediately with the heady, pleasant force of two adoring smiles, of Ignatz’s caress, Raphael’s wide fingers combing through his hair.

“You want me to open you up, then, honeybear?” he asks, tender, and Dedue can’t help but tense, buck his hips, tighten his jaw.

“Yes,” he says, and sounds so helpless, “yes, please, but Ignatz—you’ll have to stop for now or I may… embarrass myself.”

And Ignatz stays his hand, as Raphael turns to rummage for something in the nightstand, humming. Dedue aches at the absence of those deft fingers, that sweet soothing pleasure, but it’s not gone long—it returns in the form of Ignatz’s shirtsleeve at his forehead, tenderly wiping his brow.

“It wouldn’t be—embarrassing,” he murmurs, fingertips tracing the scar that cuts through Dedue’s lips. “We just want you to feel good.”

“Exactly!” adds Raphael, shutting the nightstand drawer with a jubilant clatter, holding up his prize. Even the sight of the little bottle makes Dedue twitch, makes him remember the last time he was here, eased open on slick, blunt fingers—makes him remember all the ways he’s imagined it since then. Raphael just gives him a winning, encouraging smile.

There’s some reshuffling that has to happen, then, guided by Raphael’s rumbling voice and tender hands, but when they’re finished Dedue feels all the more comfortable, lying centered on the bed, his head in Ignatz’s lap. He can feel the tensing in Ignatz’s thighs under his neck, can practically hear his thrumming pulse, quick like a summer solstice dance.

Raphael kneels at the foot of the bed, between Dedue’s spread legs, and the sight of him there, smiling, warming oil on his fingers is nearly too much—Dedue can feel himself throb, hear himself wince.

“I know,” Raphael murmurs, setting the bottle aside, laying a little kiss to the crook of Dedue’s knee. “We’ve got you,” he says, and Ignatz nods in concert with him, and Dedue is overcome with it for just a second, the security of it, before the blunt tip of one warm finger presses in little circles around his entrance and there’s nothing he can do but sigh, reach one hand back for Ignatz to hold.

And he does, squeezing gentle, reassuring him with slow sweeps of his thumb over the back of Dedue’s hand as Raphael asks in that soft husky tone if he’s ready, as Dedue moans out his yes, as his entire body tenses when Raphael pushes gently in.

Just his index finger, just to the first knuckle, but it’s been so long—nearly a year since Dedue’s had him last, weeks since he’s had the time, the indulgent mindset to open himself on his own, days since the sparring match set him simmering. Dedue shivers, cries out, grounded only by Ignatz’s palm on his cheek, Raphael’s gentling murmurs.

He arches back into it, but Raphael shakes his head, lays his free hand over the ridge of Dedue’s hip. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, sliding further in, drawing outward before he presses in all the way. “We’ve got you.”

Ignatz concurs with a little kiss to Dedue’s hot forehead, and Dedue feels so acutely the barely-there brush of soft hair on his skin that he huffs, flexes his fingers, curling them in the bedclothes, around Ignatz’s hand.

“Go on and breathe for me, okay?” Raphael cajoles him, honey-lemon cheerful, twisting his wrist and crooking his finger and really, genuinely not making Dedue’s breathing any easier, but he tries for him, measuring his inhales, timing them to the slow stroke of Raphael’s fingertip over his sweet spot. And Dedue can’t help himself, swears he almost loses it just then, but—breathes.

“Relax,” says Raphael, “loosen up, I’ll give you more if you want it.”

“I—” Dedue begins, but all the words after that just fall away. “Yes,” he manages, sounding hoarse, and Ignatz croons at him, holds him closer in his lap, cheek pressed to his soft belly, the wash-worn fabric of his shirt.

“You’re doing great,” he whispers, and Raphael nods, huffs his concurrence, teases a second finger inside.

Ignatz gentles him through the stretch of it, twirling locks of hair around his fingers, letting his tongue poke out impish when Dedue opens his eyes. He laughs at that, just under his breath, but it’s contagious, and in Raphael’s mirth his hand slips, driving into Dedue, pushing an undignified sound, another dribble of precome out of him.

“Poor thing, you’re _so_ pent-up” croons Raphael, bending down to kiss the peak of Dedue’s hipbone, so near to where he needs it most that he shakes. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come right now?”

It’s tempting. Raphael’s free hand is still braced on his side, hearthstone-warm and huge, he could just—totally envelop Dedue’s cock with it, overwhelm him with just the slightest movement, the gentlest pressure. He twitches at the thought, Ignatz’s thumb brushing over his lower lip to ease his teeth out of it, but.

“No,” Dedue insists, “I want… to feel you inside. Please,” he appends, gasping.

Raphael just nods, looks down at him like he couldn’t possibly be more proud, more enamored with him, and Dedue doesn’t parse what he says for how much it makes his heart spin, how it combines with the softness of Ignatz’s lap, the heat of the fire to warm him all the way through.

Raphael carries on after that with a barely-tempered sort of eagerness, a practiced gentility to his movements that hits just this side of overwhelming. He moves the hand at Dedue’s side, smoothing up the hills and valleys of him, from the place where his ribcage meets the muscle of his chest down to his hip, slowly, grounding. Slips him a third finger, after he’s reminded him perennially, patiently to relax, to be still and let him in.

And Dedue’s hips shift, bearing down around Raphael’s fingers, drawing him deeper, searching for the press of wide knuckles against that spot, thrusting his cock into nothing, gulping for air and breathing it out slow, hissing, trembling.

“I’m ready,” he mumbles, and the thing that tells him not to be demanding is pinned to the ground, barely even struggling under the weight of all the parts of him that want, its back flat in the snow.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” says Ignatz, stroking the backs of his fingers along Dedue’s cheek, feeling the blooming heat of it. “But you—you need it, don’t you?”

Dedue whines at that, bucking, almost insensate with how _right_ Ignatz is, with the soft warmth of him so present, so soothing, like a tether to the earth. With how close Raphael is to him, so close he can hear the speeding, deepening of his breath, but not close enough, not enfolding him, overcoming him the way he needs.

He realizes Ignatz has asked him a question, even if it was more or less rhetorical, and breathes a shaking ‘yes.’

Ignatz only giggles, that sweet modest little laugh of his. Every time Dedue hears it he feels like he’s been fed a little sweet, a mouthful of light-flavored tea, and lying in his lap, feeling it move through his body—it’s only magnified. “I know how that feels,” says Ignatz, and then Raphael is laughing too, slowly withdrawing his fingers.

“You sure you’re ready, honeybear?” he asks, leaning to meet Dedue’s eye, and as he looms over him, as his belly brushes even just slightly against Dedue’s own, he shivers. Wishes he was _closer,_ knows it won’t be long.

“I am,” he whispers, “please,” and unfurls his fingers from the bedclothes, trails them down Raphael’s pillar of an arm to lay across the back of his hand.

Raphael has to pull his hand away a second, to finagle himself into position, to carefully arrange Dedue’s thighs at either side of his wide hips, to lay sweet kisses to the inside of his knee. To spread an excess of oil over his cock, to smile boyish when he sees Dedue watching, biting his lip at the barely stifled eagerness with which he touches himself.

But then—he’s crouched down, leaning over him, and his steady hand finds Dedue’s again, laces fingers together, and Dedue grips it as he feels Raphael nudging at his entrance, goes white-knuckled as he eases himself inside, marvels at the sweet low sigh that pours out of Raphael. His doing, that, and no matter how many times he lies with Raphael, it never ceases to strike him—that he makes Raphael feel so good, that Raphael must want him just as much as he wants Raphael.

It doesn’t stay in Dedue’s mind long, though, nothing does, not when Raphael finally seats himself in all the way, stretching him so sweetly, painlessly, not when Raphael’s broad body comes down to cover his, to envelop him in that warmth, ground him under the pressure. Not when Raphael’s belly presses full against his cock, relieving that ache as much as it makes it worse, makes him twitch, cry out full-throated, trail off into a whimper that Ignatz soothes with a squeeze of his hand, a smile.

Raphael lingers a while, leaving sloppy kisses around Dedue’s shoulder, his clavicle, his breast. “You’re doin’ great,” he murmurs, lips brushing Dedue’s skin, “just perfect, honeybear, you got it.”

And Dedue keens with the praise, the reassurance, the all-consuming _heat_ of him, and writhes, holding tight to both his lovers’ hands as Raphael draws out of him, carefully, not all the way. Just enough for Dedue to feel the loss of him, to flex his hips up, to fumble a shameless little plea before Raphael croons to him, a little mumbled apology.

Pushes back in, steady and sure, grinding in as deep as he goes, honestly _throbbing_ against Dedue’s sweet spot, and it’s that or the drag of his soft belly against his cock that pulls him under, makes him tear his hands free, cling to Raphael’s back as he sobs, spasming and spilling, dissolving completely between the two of them.

“That’s it,” he hears Raphael say, hoarse. “There you go, Dedue, honey, let it all out.”

And he does, shivering, gulping down rasping breaths until he slackens under Raphael’s weight, wrung out like a linen sheet on laundry day. Still damp, not yet ready for the world, but—renewed. Clean. Raphael moves off of him, settles himself again at Dedue’s side, one hand resting at his breast. It centers all Dedue’s focus in his breath, and for a moment he just lies there, listens to the slowing of his own pulse.

He shifts himself up, after, leaning on his elbows, slowly gathering up his bearings. Ignatz squeezes his shoulder, turns away to search for something.

Raphael is still hard, the head of his cock flushed as red as his cheeks after three mugs of ale, but he doesn’t look bothered. Just smiles, watches as if there’s no such thing as time.

Still—Dedue’s teeth catch instinctively on the inside of his cheek. “Would you like me to—?”

He just shakes his head. “Nah, ‘m fine. That was for you, honeybear, you needed it so bad!”

Dedue’s slack, tired mouth curls into one of the easiest smiles of his life. “I suppose I did. Still, if you change your mind… I would be more than willing.”

Raphael winks at him, then—or, Dedue thinks it’s supposed to be a wink, it’s just kind of an offbeat scrunching of the eye—but then Ignatz settles back onto his side of the bed, bearing a damp washcloth.

He holds it out to Dedue, but before he can take it, Raphael is already dabbing at his abdomen, wiping away his mess. Dedue twitches—the water’s gone a little cold.

But there are worse things in the world, than lying between the men he loves, than being so gallantly attended. Ignatz reaches for him, leans against Dedue’s heavy shoulder, and Dedue is just—just struck by the warmth of him, radiating through his comfortable clothes, and if he’d felt remiss in not attending to Raphael…

“Ignatz,” he says, after a moment, after Raphael pulls the washcloth away, takes it to the smears on his own skin. “Was that—did you… Excuse me, I’ve never had a way with words.”

There’s a glint in Ignatz’s eye, an angling of his head that suggests he understands completely, and it’s in the space between Dedue stopping himself and Ignatz opening his mouth that Dedue finds himself besotted with him again.

“No, no,” Ignatz protests, softly. “You were saying?”

“Just that it is… your turn, as it were. If you’d like it to be.”

Dedue can feel the jolt that goes through Ignatz’s body, a little static shock, like Dedue’s words are a doorknob, a carpet on a dry day. He gathers together an apology, and is nearly ready to speak it when Ignatz’s palm forms to the angle of his jaw, angles him for an exuberant kiss.

When Ignatz pulls back, he looks—sheepish, and a little sweaty, but he’s still grinning the way he was when Dedue stood at his doorstep, at the end of the wrestling match when his snowball hit its mark exactly.

Dedue, for a second, just feels a little dizzy. In a good way, though—it’s the kind of lightheadedness that comes from good mulled wine, and he suspends himself in it for a moment, until there’s movement on the bed, until there’s soft laughter ringing out around him.

“We’ll give Dedue a minute, pumpkin, he’s gotta cool down,” Raphael declares, as if Dedue’s just been training with him, bearing weights other than Raphael’s own body. And Dedue—nearly protests, but then they’re kissing, hungrily, and he realizes he’d be a fool not to just watch.

Ignatz collapses, instinctually, against Raphael’s body, hands falling to his bare waist, his hips. Not holding on, just staying there, taking in the warmth, the softness of him, feeling him on whatever naked skin he can. Raphael gathers him close to his chest, enfolding him almost entirely with just one arm while the other pets his hair, his neck. Dips down the neckline of his shirt in back, lingers for a moment when Ignatz whines.

Dedue knows the feeling. Raphael has always had rough-hewn hands, toughened with work, and the sensation, the gentle drag of his callused fingertips at the nape of one’s neck… it makes Ignatz wince so sweetly. He lifts one hand from his husband’s hip, holds it out, squeezing desperate when Dedue takes it.

It’s not long before Raphael’s hand meets the hem of Ignatz’s shirt, and he slips his fingers underneath, testing, pulls back for a breath.

“Okay, pumpkin? Dedue?” He turns to him for just a second, his eyes darting straight back to Ignatz’s barely-open eyes, reddened lips. Dedue understands that, too.

“I am well,” he says, as Ignatz catches his breath. “The two of you are… lovely.”

Raphael laughs in earnest, then, turning once more to fix him with a smile like the midday sun. “Yeah? I don’t know about me, but I love my handsome man!” he says, with an air of having said so a thousand times. Still Ignatz blushes, looks down.

A quick kiss to his husband’s forehead, then Raphael is back, still grinning. _“Both_ my handsome men!”

Dedue’s got no idea what to say—perhaps something like ‘you flatter me,’ or ‘oh my,’ or ‘do you suppose it’s alright that my heart feels like it’s dripping?’—so he just smiles a little wider, is still.

It’s no matter, though, because then Ignatz pipes up, says with a shaking voice that he’s alright, that he feels good. He leans against Raphael’s chest again, as if it’s physically painful not to be pressed against his breast.

“Pumpkin,” Raphael whispers, speaking into the part of Ignatz’s hair. No doubt it’s getting in his mouth, but he couldn’t care less and if Dedue was in his shoes, he wouldn’t either. “You wanna keep going? Get out of those clothes?”

Ignatz hastens to nod, nearly knocking his husband’s chin, making Raphael laugh again. “Please,” he says, “but w-would you leave my shirt on?”

“Course, Ig! It’s a cute shirt,” chirps Raphael, only a little too loudly. He runs his hand down Ignatz’s side again, feeling the pilled fabric, rubbing the hem for a second between his finger and thumb. “Pants good though?”

“Everything else is fine,” Ignatz confirms, and squeezes Dedue’s hand one more time before he lets go, settles himself back down onto the bed. Turns to him, when they’re at eye level, and smiles so completely, so cheerfully that his whole face scrunches up with it.

Dedue is struck with the sentiment that he wants to see that smile every day, in this bed every morning when the sun streams through the curtains. He leans in again, kissing him just to feel the curve of his lips, the blissed-out looseness of him. Ignatz opens to him so easily, whimpers at the movement of his tongue, his warm hand coming to rest at the back of his head.

And when they pull away, laughing on soft exhales, Ignatz’s lower half is bare, Raphael rubbing his thighs to keep off the chill. Ignatz is just as lovely as Dedue’s imagined him, pale and soft-curved, dusted all over with downy blond hair that thickens, grows coarser down his shins.

He marvels most especially at the juncture of his thighs—when Raphael’s hands draw away, rub down to his knees, Dedue can see them dappled with the same love bites that adorn his neck, his shoulders. And just upwards from there, he looks—so soft, the slickness of him glinting in the firelight, and if Dedue has ever craved him before, ever wondered what it might be like to ply Ignatz with his mouth… it feels imperative, now, watching Raphael’s fingers trail up the inner plane of his thigh, hearing his trembling breath when Raphael thumbs over his swollen clit.

“Ignatz,” Dedue murmurs, although he’s not so certain what he’d meant to say after that. Ignatz turns to him anyway, his face alight with pleasure, smiling small and content like a painting of a saint, and Dedue’s mind is suddenly overcome with words for him, _handsome, precious, darling._

Raphael must notice, because his free hand comes to ruffle Dedue’s hair, and he flashes him a knowing smile. “I know, right?” he says simply, fingers still working away.

He turns back to Ignatz, then, leaning in to kiss his rosy cheeks, his temples, the end of his nose. His mouth, again, angling his head to fit against his parted lips, to absorb Ignatz’s happy little sighs.

“Is there something you want, pumpkin?” murmurs Raphael after, when their foreheads are touching, their half-lidded eyes are locked. He draws back, then, getting a better angle on his arm, and Dedue cranes his neck to see one thick finger sliding between Ignatz’s folds, dragging slowly, without pressure across his entrance. 

“Mm,” he begins, after a moment, and then trails off again for a while, hips canting against Raphael’s hand. “I want—if it’s alright, I want Dedue…”

A shiver runs through Dedue at that, warm, and even though he’s undoubtedly spent he feels himself twitch. “Absolutely,” he says, surprising himself with how _dazed_ he sounds, “of course, Ignatz, how?”

Watching that face, the gradual speeding of his breath, the way he squirms—Dedue is entirely at Ignatz’s mercy. Would do anything, honestly anything, it would be nothing he’d not been preoccupied with before. Still--even if Ignatz never decides, never works out what he wants... getting to watch him like this is enough.

“Would it… be alright if I asked you to use your mouth?” Ignatz asks, and his hands come up to his chest, as if he’s just this side of hiding his face. “You don’t have to!”

Dedue blinks, and feels acutely the way he does when Raphael embraces him, lifts him into the air—such a sweet shock. _“Yes,”_ he breathes, and there’s a whole litany at the back of his throat, every image he’s ever had of kneeling for Ignatz, of kissing him there, feeling those deft fingers against his scalp, but—he swallows it.

“I am afraid, however, that I’m—”

Raphael cuts him off with a cheerful thump on his shoulder. “This is your first time, right?” He waits for Dedue’s nod, still sunny. “I’ll help! You’ll be a pro at it in no time!”

“I—thank you, Raphael.”

“No problem! Gotta make sure my man’s taken care of, right? C’mere,” he says, moving his hand from between Ignatz’s thighs, scooping his husband up into his arms. Ignatz laughs, peppers his face with kisses, trusting that Raphael won’t let him fall.

And then Raphael is seated at the head of the bed, Ignatz in his lap, leaning up to kiss his jaw, and Dedue lies on his belly, his cheek resting against one thigh, Ignatz’s ankles crossed loosely between his shoulder blades.

He’s spread out right in front of him, so close that Dedue can _smell_ him, and—he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it’s a dry scent, earthy, not unpleasant. He looks up, past Raphael’s arms around Ignatz’s waist, past the impressions of his nipples through his shirt, up to meet his eye, widened, waiting.

“What—ought I do?” Dedue asks, gently, and he’s so close that Ignatz can feel his breath, whimpers with it. He’s not sure what to say, stammers, so Raphael breaks in with a soft clearing of his throat, with his infinite affability.

“Don’t worry about it, honeybear, I got you!” He slides one hand into Dedue’s loose hair, stroking him, and for a second Dedue just breathes, leaning into the touch, letting his nerves settle. “There’s no way you can disappoint us, isn’t that right, pumpkin?”

Ignatz smiles, and nods, and pats Dedue gently just above his hairline.

“To start, you can just—“ and Raphael pulls his hand away, slips it slowly down from Ignatz’s hip to rest fingertips on either side of his clit, spreading him just gently. “Go for it, right there, with your tongue? He likes that.”

Dedue nods, shifts his eyes down, gets a good look. It’s like—he could sit here all night and try to think about what it’s like, some trite something-or-other about a flower or a fruit, but what particularly matters about it is that it’s _hard,_ the tip of it just visible under its hood, and it twitches under the scrutiny. What matters about it is that it must _ache,_ that he’s left it too long without his attention.

He leans in—it’s not far—and lays a gentle kiss against it, with barely any pressure. Still, Ignatz gasps at the contact, and Raphael’s fingers pull away, restored to their place in Dedue’s hair, stroking.

“Good, _good,”_ Raphael murmurs, “you got it.”

And Dedue takes a breath, smiles at the praise, at the gentle scrape of callused fingertips against his scalp, but—he’s got to have more. He parts his lips, dragging just the tip of his tongue up under Ignatz’s clit, then repeating his motion more fully, more slowly, drawing a shaky little moan out of him.

_“More,”_ Ignatz whines, and Dedue feels it like the most wonderful blow to the chest, sighing, laving over him completely and coming back down to lap at his entrance, just barely nudging inside.

He doesn’t have to wonder if he’s got it right, not with Ignatz’s thighs trembling around his ears, not with Raphael’s gentle hand in his hair, with Ignatz’s coming to join it, to sweep away the hair from his face. Not with the sounds he’s making, little whimpers spilling from his wide-open mouth, giving way to chest-deep sighs, gasping breaths.

Dedue still does, though, wonder, because if there’s anything he can be doing to make this better for Ignatz, he wants to, wants to hear more of those gorgeous little noises, wants to feel Ignatz’s heels dig deeper into his back, wants more of that slick gathering at the edges of his mouth. He slows a second, opens his eyes, cranes his neck even further to glance upward.

Shivers at what he sees—Ignatz, at once tense and boneless, his head listing back against Raphael’s broad shoulder, his husband whispering soft into his ear. Dedue can’t hear what he’s saying, imagines it’s some kind of private praise, wouldn’t presume to intrude.

Ignatz lifts his head a little at the loss of sensation, looks down. His eyes flutter open, the bliss on his face rearranging itself into—bemusement, tinged as ever with apology. “I-is everything okay?”

Dedue shifts a little, bites his lip. “Yes, I’m well, I only—wanted to see if there was anything I could do better?” He chided himself for asking, spoiling the moment, but… well. If he could improve, there would be better moments to follow. Even the thought of Ignatz under him, around him—feeling more, feeling _better_ than he was just then… it made Dedue’s blood run a little warmer.

Ignatz just smiles, a watered-down new-moon little thing Dedue swears must be the most beautiful sight for a hundred miles. “No, no!” he says, smoothing his fingers through Dedue’s hair, “no, you’re perfect. You—I—” and he stops, sighs, takes a moment to corral his words back into place. Dedue knows the feeling.

“It felt good,” he says, as if revealing some small secret.

Dedue isn’t sure whether to thank him. “Ought I—should I continue?”

“Please!”

And Raphael laughs, then, at Ignatz’s eagerness, at the little crack in his voice, and kisses his husband’s cheek, his ear—can barely pull himself away once he’s started to peer down at Dedue, to give him another haphazard wink.

“You can—and tell me if you don’t want, pumpkin, but what works for me sometimes is if you just—” he purses his lips, loses his train of thought. Kisses Ignatz once more, and then finds it again. “If you suck—be gentle though!!—on his dick? Try that.”

Ignatz turns positively crimson, but with his free hand gives Dedue a thumbs-up, and that’s all he needs to shut his eyes again, dip his head, get back to it.

He comes back to him carefully, deliberately, not wanting to overwhelm him from the jump. Just—continues with what he’d been doing, warming him up, waiting to hear those little sounds again, feel those fingers curling in his hair.

“That’s it,” Raphael murmurs, “that’s right, go on.”

And so he does, goes on, closes his lips around Ignatz’s swollen little cock, and even though he’s as tentative, as gentle as he can possibly be—Ignatz _sobs._

Dedue swears it breaks his heart, how lovely it sounds, how heady it is that _he’s_ the one to make Ignatz feel that way, that he’s doing well, giving him what he needs, and he—stifles a little moan himself, gets back to it, massaging him carefully, languidly, with lips and tongue.

Feels those thighs tense up again, start to shake, feels Ignatz dripping against him, listens to those cries, underscored with constant low encouragement from Raphael, and it’s not long before Ignatz breaks, wailing, bucking his hips up and shivering apart in Raphael's arms, against Dedue's mouth.

Dedue doesn't pull back until he's finished, until he can feel Ignatz slacken and slump against his husband. Even though Ignatz's thighs grip him tight, even though his neck aches, it's worth it, worth feeling every last tremor and twitch as Ignatz lets himself go.

When he does draw back, he gathers his lost breath, swipes the back of one hand over his mouth. It's a messy business, this, but--he supposes it's like gardening, like cooking. There's always going to be a little clearing up after, but it's worth it for the enjoyment of the act itself.

That enjoyment is plain all over Ignatz's face, half-buried in the hollow of Raphael's neck, a little smile playing at the corners of his open mouth. It comes to Dedue that he's lovelier now than Dedue has ever seen him, and he nearly says so, but then thinks that that wouldn't be fair to all those past Ignatzes--the ones that attend so closely to their sketchbooks, or smile brightly at the breakfast table, that kiss their husband or their daughter or Dedue.

So he just smiles, settles himself into the dip at the center of the mattress. Says a demure little "thank you both."

Raphael waves a kindly dismissive hand, then darts it over to the nightstand, hands Dedue another damp cloth. He dabs his brow with it, wipes his mouth as clean as he feels like getting it.

"Did y'all have a good time, honeybear? Pumpkin? I know I did."

Ignatz nods, so quickly, so enthusiastically that it must make him dizzy, but Dedue just--clears his throat.

"You're certain, Raphael? I could still--for you--"

But Raphael just waves him off again, brings that hand down to cover Dedue's where it lies on the coverlet. "Didn't ask about myself, did I? You're sweet, honey, but I'm not worrying about it. Just want to know if you enjoyed yourself!"

And Dedue cedes, and laughs, twines his fingers with Raphael's. They're still a little damp, but he can't even begin to think about minding. "I did," he murmurs, completely helpless. "It was lovely, I--thank you, again."

Raphael just laughs, that soft kind laugh of his, as if everything in the world is novel and exciting. "Course, Dedue!"

Ignatz reaches for him, too, still-shaky fingers brushing his forehead, just at the edge of his reach. "Thank _you,"_ he says, blushing anew. "Y-you're always welcome here, with us. I mean--in our home, of course, but also. Here."

Raphael nods his assent, still laughing heartily, and Dedue feels like his heart's been stuffed with cottonwool, sits there beautifully bewildered until Raphael grasps his shoulder, pulls him close, lays half a hundred kisses in his hair, at the nape of his neck, the start of his spine.

And they lay like this, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing, silent until they're cool enough to crawl under the covers. And it's--a fumble, but entirely worthwhile for where it leaves Dedue, nestled between them, bedded down in soft sheets, against soft bodies, with soft voices in his ear, soft idle kisses at his neck.

He rests, then, for once without a burden on his mind, without the weight of any world, no matter how small, on his shoulders. Just the knowledge that there will be hot tea in the morning, and his lovers' bedhead, and perhaps a little light housework to do. Conversations to be had, rematches to be played at cards or sparring. More love to be made, if he'd like it, and days and days to do it in still.

For once, to his muted, sleepy surprise, Dedue finds himself entirely at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!! hope you're enjoying thus far! i know i'm having fun writing it!
> 
> next chapter should be ready in a couple of days, tops.
> 
> as always, tell me what you thought of this, and feel free to hang out with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you'd like!
> 
> thanks for reading!


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